


The Paris Challenge

by BourbonWhisky_TwoSicilies



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: 1832-?, Boarding School, Eton College, Etonian tradition, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Servant, Paris Challenge, Paris Uprising 1832, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, teenage drums and alfred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-03 05:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonWhisky_TwoSicilies/pseuds/BourbonWhisky_TwoSicilies
Summary: The aristocratic Lord Alfred Paget and middle-class banker's son, Edward Drummond, are two Eton schoolboys burdened by familial expectations and marital obligation. But when the two friends are bound together by a peculiar Etonian tradition, will they defy the hand of their puppet-masters to pursue a different course?Yes, they will. Obviously.





	1. Lord of the Fags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, welcome to the tail-end of Victoria off-season I guess lol  
> Lord Alfred and Drummond were probably educated at posh boarding schools like Eton, so I thought I could explore their formative years at school, which I feel like could be fresh and new for this fandom. Thanks for giving it a go!

The Marquess of Anglesey was one to seize opportunity, and the loss of his leg at Waterloo had only made him more determined. He had realised shortly after his fourth son’s birth that the Court of St James’s would soon be empty with King George’s death looming and one legitimate grandchild remaining of him.

So, on Lord Alfred Paget’s 4th birthday, just months after the King’s death, the Marquess demanded that the boy should one day attend Eton College. Then, he proceeded to set his son’s entire life into motion, drawing up a strict chart detailing the connections he would need to make and the year by which he would need to establish himself as a courtier.

Since that day, the school had been described to Alfred as a rite of passage. His elder brothers had already experienced it and were full of advice that they would not share. Their little brother would simply have to weather the storm, as it was a process that he would endure like every other member of his line.

Now at 16, and after three years at Eton, Alfred knew his responsibilities. He had surpassed the rebellious phase of his childhood and simply accepted them. As ordered, he’d made alliances with the boys most likely to become Ministers and had competed to outdo those who sought to tarnish his reputation.

One such boy with political aspirations was an upper-sixth former, the bright Edward Drummond. Alfred wasn’t sure if this type of ally was one his father approved of; the Drummond family titles had been confiscated after the Jacobite rebellions, leaving Edward decidedly middle-class.

Alfred would be lying to himself if he had wholly followed the instructions from his father in relation to the details of his “alliance” with this particular boy. That Drummond provided a political connection was true, but that he possessed the ability to tarnish the Paget name was also true.

That is, given the sharing of living spaces at College, it was no secret that Alfred’s voice would have gone hoarse by now had he cried “wolf” every time another student tried to kiss him. Drummond knew all about Alfred’s indiscretions, and that had only cemented a true friendship between them. Alfred supposed Eton lived up to the reputation his father and elder brothers described; it helped many disoriented boys to better “understand” themselves. Alfred had a hand, a tongue, and another appendage, in many of those discovery stories.

So, with two years to go, Alfred finally accepted that the infatuation he’d developed for Edward transcended “indiscretion”, with which he was familiar, into the plane of romance. What he felt for Edward was not like what he’d felt in stolen kisses and meaningless whines of pleasure shared with other boys.

As the two belonged to the scholars’ house—“College”—they had become acquainted on Alfred’s very first day as a shy 13-year-old. It took only two years for a certain chemistry between them to flourish into an embarrassing crush on Alfred’s part. Something about Drummond’s apathy for the marriage contracts his father threw at him was what endeared Alfred to him; this boy understood the weight of a life planned by one’s superiors.

In many ways, Alfred forgot that the original purpose behind their friendship was political. He simply enjoyed the blissful feeling of strolling through Windsor Great Park with his companion on sunny days, skinny dipping in the Mill Pond on a whim, and sharing a flirtatious conversation in lavish smoking rooms when the nights were cold before cuddling up by the fire.

However, now that Drummond was in upper-sixth form, his last year at Eton, and Alfred in lower, the year of 1832 would take a different turn according to one peculiar tradition.

The Etonian system was bizarre when Drummond thought about it. The perpetual mourning of students for the long-dead King George III was expressed in the funeral-like school uniform, but the boys secretly enjoyed wearing it.

‘No, I can’t say that one is the queerest…’ Alfred said as Edward talked about their ridiculous morning coats. It was a sunny Friday afternoon by the Mill Pond at Windsor Park, and the boys were sitting by the banks with coats discarded and chemises unbuttoned to cool off. They sat close to one another, shoulders touching, to hear each other’s quiet voices.

August.

The two were back to school next week but decided to take some time with each other before school work became heavy in-semester. The trees blew a refreshing wind across the water but didn’t carry Alfred’s sweet voice away with it.

‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall, which is the queerest of them all?’

‘The fagging, that one is quite queer,’ Alfred replied, snorting and rolling his head into Drummond’s arm in hysterics. Edward choked as he recalled his turn at being fag when he was Alfred’s age.

Eton tradition dictated that all upper-sixth form students were assigned a personal servant from the lower cohort, who were the “fags”. Every Eton boy took their turn as fag and, when they became seniors, received their own. It was an exercise in humility and an education in the daily life of a domestic servant, especially as many fag-boys would one day manage a household of real servants, no doubt.

Equally, it was an excellent opportunity for the graduating cohort, the “fag-masters”, to outsource menial tasks such as dish-washing, bed-making, cooking, and dressing, to a helping hand. The fag-master was to take onboard the total management of his fag; his happiness, well-being, and of course, the master was to specify the work-load.

Alfred recalled his brothers saying that to be a fag for a year was to live the life of a valet, cook, footman, and scullery maid combined into one, alongside studies, of course.

Yet what terrified Alfred, to the point that he had not slept last night, was not the concept of cooking and cleaning. It was the stories his brothers had told him about fag-boys that were silently forced into submitting to the darker desires of their fag-masters.

‘I suppose fagging is indeed queer,’ Edward whispered, ‘but also an incredible luxury of which I shall take every advantage.’ He winked at Alfred, causing him to gasp at the naughty implication. In fact, it would have scared him were Drummond not as harmless as a fly—though he was every bit annoying at times.

Alfred had a hopeful glint in his own eyes, something that begged some sort of result from what Edward had just muttered. He was happy to do his time as fag, but he needed it to be with someone who he knew would never hurt him, nor force him into the vulnerable position his brothers had described. He felt his heart race with the fear of Edward rejecting his silent offer.

Drummond smiled when he looked at Alfred, seeing him relax under his gaze as he formulated a question that he knew would put his friend to rest. ‘Are you asking me to be your fag-master, Paget?’

‘I’d rather work under you than some other fool,’ Alfred explained. He tried to glide over his words, never letting them quiver and betray fear. A flirtatious joke wouldn’t go amiss on that score. ‘Make no mistake, Mr Drummond, I choose only the demon I know.’

‘And that you should choose me, is a great privilege.’ He broke into laughter at Alfred’s cheeks, which were developing a deep blush.

‘Oh, shut up, Edward!’

‘When they cut open my chest, they shall find that gratitude carved on my heart,’ he sang.

Alfred sighed at his silly friend. ‘I’ll do it, but let’s neither say nor sing any more about it.’

Drummond tackled his friend on the grassy bank to force him to shut up, causing both to erupt into giggles. They rolled around in a wrestle to exert the energy of two perfectly excited school boys, and Alfred knew that as long as he kept under Drummond’s wing, he would be safe from harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this start! Please leave a comment to motivate me, getting kudos and hearing feedback from you (even stuff you didn't like!) keeps me going :)  
> As you can see, this isn't really a boarding-school AU fic, it's more a prequel to the main series for the five years before Victoria's ascension in 1837 (just pretend Drumfred meets up a decade earlier, if Daisy is allowed to fuck the timeline then so am I) So I want it to tie into canon material as much as possible in terms of how Alfred particularly views his sexuality, and perhaps why he treats the drumfred relationship on-screen as a dalliance...
> 
> Just on [fagging](https://www.theguardian.com/education/2005/oct/12/publicschools.schools)... okay, so this is a real tradition that has a few horrific sexual assault/rape implications, and I was researching it for another fic (modern). Honestly, reading the article above made my stomach churn a bit on the more serious statements (not for the light-hearted).  
> Fagging doesn't go on anymore, but I thought this could be a unique idea for this fandom. Plus the idea of Alfred doing hard work is hilarious. I did also enjoy using the word "queer" a lot in this chapter for dramatic irony lol
> 
> Alfred is a bit scared of being propositioned, so if I do decide to put any explicit scenes relating to sexual abuse, it will be mentioned in tags and warnings!


	2. Stars Adorning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New characters, some romantic tension, and just a little bit of love for Septimus Paget!   
> Warning: implied sexual assault in this chapter.

Come Monday morning, boys from across the country had arrived at the renaissance brick fortress known as Eton. Alfred and Drummond were already settled into their dreary dormitory but found it difficult to snooze with the excitement about the school boys who had just arrived.

The scholars’ dorms were located by the chapel and Great Hall within the school itself, which gave the boys some time to roll about in their beds before needing to wake up for breakfast.

Despite Alfred being sorted into the College house by academic performance—which his father thought imperative to the plan—he found that he didn’t quite fit the nerdy stereotype, though he maintained that Drummond and his obsession with political non-fiction did. The other 19 school houses found their dormitories in the nearby village, usually they were collectively referred to as the “Oppidan” side, so it was difficult to avoid being singled out as a Collegian, no less a titled pretty-boy, as Alfred came to be known.

So, when breakfast came, one could see the College and Oppidan division in the seating. The large medieval stone theatre that served as the breakfast hall boasted many long wooden tables, but College students took their seats on a small one near the front of the hall by the professor’s platform, leaving Oppidan students behind them.

Alfred and Edward sat next to each other as usual, making their way through servings of eggs, toast, fruit, and pastries. Edward made sure to leave some mess behind on his plate, making Alfred scowl as his fag-duties would officially begin on that morning.

‘Would it hurt to make your friend’s job somewhat simpler?’ Alfred asked, eying the crumbs and discarded egg scraps building up on Edward’s plate.

‘What is it that I recall…’ Drummond wondered aloud, continuing to make a mess. ‘Ah, yes, you’re my servant now, Paget!’

‘How thoughtful a friend you are, Drummond.’

‘That’s “Mr Drummond”, thank you!’

Alfred sighed as Edward continued to rub-in the implications of their new dynamic. Alfred typically was the more outgoing of the two—even the “leader” of their circle of friends, despite being the youngest—simply because of his tasteful, yet scathing, wit and charm to compensate. So, Edward couldn’t help but put the young ambitious boy in his place now that he held a higher position.

As Alfred was considering his friend’s assertion of seniority, he realised he should have taken his chances being picked out by the other seniors. Normally, the dominant men asserted their right to first pick of the fags, taking the prettiest—the most feminine—looking young boy, as their own.

But then he shoved his ill thoughts down and remembered his gratitude as he thought to his brother, Septimus.

‘It always did start with harmless spooning, two—or more—hormonal boys looking to each other for physical contact in the cold of winter,’ his brother had explained to a much younger Alfred, quivering despite being a grown man as he told his story. ‘But too many times had it gone further than that.’

The fact was, boys thought Septimus “pretty”, with his long blond hair and soft pale skin. It would start with a touch on the thigh, then the jingle of belt buckles. It rarely went further than hands and skin touching skin, but on one occasion…

Septimus had not enjoyed retelling that story from his fag-year, but Alfred listened and bear-hugged his older brother throughout the entire recount. The honesty and trust established between them on that day was the reason Alfred viewed Septimus as his favourite brother. Someone he could count on, no matter what.

Horror stories of his brother’s in mind, Alfred put a smile on his face and felt glad for the safety he’d found in Drummond. He engaged him in playful banter and thought nothing more about it.

‘What a harsh world we live in, when God has given me you instead of some ghastly disease,’ Alfred joked.

‘Being in charge of your well-being, I am not inclined to see you die on the job, Paget.’

As other students arrived to breakfast, Alfred saw some new faces. A brunet with blue eyes sat down on the other side of Edward, ready to ask about the conversation between the two friends. Alfred noted that he was stereotypically handsome, with his wavy hair and groomed moustache which he found impressive for a young lad. He allowed his eyes to linger for a moment, before focusing on the task of clearing Drummond’s plate.

‘I see you’ve found your fag if the complaining is anything to note,’ he said, scooping food onto his own plate. Alfred ignored the comment.

‘Alfred requested me specifically, if you can believe it,’ Drummond replied. ‘I’m Edward Drummond, I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘Lord Andrew Grosvenor,’ the boy said, reaching to shake Edward’s hand. ‘And this must be Lord Alfred Paget, I’ve heard a bit about you.’

‘Good things, I hope,’ Alfred said.

‘I’m sure that would depend entirely on the people to whom I talk,’ Andrew joked.

Edward dropped his giggles and gripped Alfred’s trouser legs as soon as he noticed Alfred’s breath hitch in anxiety, to make the boy feel his reassuring presence. Edward looked into his friend’s eyes and gave him a stern look. _Take no notice._

‘We best be off to chapel, I hear the hymn selection for today is particularly moving,’ Edward blurted out, picking up Alfred’s dirty dishes himself, to save him awkward return trip.

 

Students packed into the 15th century lower chapel for morning hymns, its vaulted stone ceiling trapping in the deathly cold. Alfred shivered—Drummond offered a scarf, but that seemed to be ineffective for this type of coldness.

Students arranged themselves by house in the pews, all facing towards a large gothic arched widow at the front, from which light streamed in to grace their cheeks. The first real warmth of the day.

Andrew had kept by with Alfred and Edward, which didn’t bother the two friends so long as he behaved himself. Alfred’s nerves tingled with the cold air but also the fear of someone he didn’t know having heard in detail about him. Some of it wore off as a few of his other friends arrived; George Herbert, and Lords John Percy and Henry Howard.

George, an upper-sixth form boy, had taken to Alfred’s wicked sense of humour and witty remarks when Edward had first introduced them. In fact, since the two also found Edward’s obsession with politics most dissatisfying, the two had become fast friends while Drummond was occupied studying his political transcripts. George tended to favour vulgarity over wit, but Alfred appreciated a chance to be immature.

John introduced some much-needed diversity of character to the group. He was more reserved than even Edward, preferring to keep away from loud parties, but Alfred had discovered the previous year that should he become drunk enough, that would go away. He chuckled at the memory of John passed out in a bush after one Friday night College party—the boys had then carried him to Windsor Park, undressed him, left him on a patch of grass, and thrown his clothes up a tree, just out of reach, for when he would wake up.

And then there was Henry, the fiercely protective father of the group. He was by far the poshest of them, which the boys all bullied him for, but that did not make him any less determined to shield his friends. Any man that dared to demean John or Alfred in particular—aside from him, of course—would be warned that should he continue, he would find himself in a hospital with total amnesia under someone else’s name.

Alfred loved the little family they’d created amongst themselves, but now it seemed Andrew would create friction amongst it, if the introduction was anything to go by.

‘Lord Andrew Grosvenor, pleasure to meet you,’ the new boy said, introducing himself to the new arrivals. Henry rolled his eyes at the bold use of title, ready to mention that he was a Norfolk should Andrew pull rank.

George, however, saw it as an opportunity. ‘You? You’re Lord Andrew Grosvenor?’

‘Your eyes do not deceive you, it is I,’ Andrew said, huffing as if he were royalty.

‘I should hope so, because I have been searching for my fag all morning; it was most dissatisfactory that I had to clear my own breakfast.’

Alfred and Drummond suppressed laughter at George’s turn of tone, watching as he tried to hide his amusement from his eyes in face of Andrew’s obvious embarrassment.

‘I apologise, profusely, I was lost in the building.’

‘For that, I can draw map. But I am no cartographer of people; should you forget yourself again, you’d best hope you find your way quickly.’

The whispers and joking died as the headmaster, one Professor Keate, stepped up to a podium by the altar. He was a portly old man who struggled at first to configure himself to deliver the welcome speech. Edward poked Alfred in the thigh to draw his attention, still a giggle etched onto their faces and threatening to burst forward into the silent hall just from one look at each other.

Edward mouthed to him, _This is going to be a long fucking road._

 _Shut up! You’re going to make me laugh!_ Alfred said back with his smile.

‘Welcome, my lords and gentlemen, to this, the start of another year…’

Alfred felt himself ready to doze off with each word from the old Keate. By the time the morning hymn rolled around, his body felt stiff from sitting too long. Nevertheless, he pulled out his hymn book—which Drummond had forgotten to bring once again, so looked on to Alfred’s—and added his voice to the ten hundred others against the chapel organ.

 

_Brightest and best of the stars of the morning;_

_Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid;_

_Star of the East, the horizon adorning…_

Alfred couldn’t help but peek over at Drummond as the congregation sung the verse, keeping an obvious smile from spreading over his face as not to draw Edward’s attention. The boy, leaning over to read from Alfred’s book, hadn’t even noticed he was staring. To simply observe him would be like viewing a person frozen in one of those photograph creations, he imagined.

Yet as Alfred thought about his brightest and best star rising in his East, he could think of nothing that made Edward simply an embellishment on the horizon of his life.

He couldn’t say he was a devout Anglican—too many aspects of his life were at odds with the Bible—but he did admit that the songs of the Church provoked thought. The hymn occupied his mind with Drummond more and more as they sang.

Suddenly, Alfred felt the sinking despair of missing out. He had been so obvious towards Edward, so transparent. Did he need to be clearer, or was Edward silently disinterested? It was confusing to Alfred to be stuck between a fear of missing out on something more between them, and the complete joy that their friendship already brought.

As the group exited the chapel for classes—“divs”, as they called them—Drummond piped up with a quip he had spent a few minutes formulating.

‘I noticed you seemed quite engrossed by the service, Alfred,’ he said, earning a laugh from the group.

_By the service, or by you?_

Drummond leaned over so his head was nearly on Alfred’s shoulder to whisper the true laughing point. ‘But I should remind you that no amount of head-bowing nor hymn-singing could possibly save you from a seat next to the Devil.’

‘And whatever by that do you mean?’ Alfred smiled as if he possessed the purity of an angel on Earth, batting his eyes at Drummond to play a well-rehearsed game.

‘I saw it in your eyes that you think Andrew pretty, in the way that you have been, sometimes, considered pretty.’

Alfred coughed to cover the words from listening ears, blushing too much to deny the truth in Edward’s words.

‘Sometimes? And who considers me such? May I remind you that “pretty boys” and “attractive men” are quite different, do note the difference, Drummond.’

Edward opened his mouth, but promptly closed it again to prevent regretful words leaving it. He was almost inclined to ask where he fell on such a scale in Alfred’s eyes. He felt some curious need for validation from Alfred; he thought himself handsome but others rarely told him so, whereas Alfred seemed to steal attention wherever he went.

However, Drummond sighed as the courage he’d built up over the course of their joke-conversation abandoned him.

As the group walked the icy grounds away from the embellished chapel, George and Henry turned off to find their classes. John and Andrew soon followed. Alfred lamented having to leave Drummond’s side, but with the two in different cohorts, it was inevitable that their classes should be in different buildings.

‘Shall I see you at tea after divs, Drummond?’

‘I look forward to it.’ He tipped his top-hat off to Alfred and allowed the crowds of students to carry him off.

Alfred always felt the stiff, emotionless, English way left something to be desired upon good-byes as he stood alone amid a sea of penguins waddling off to class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna have to rewatch series 2 at this point because I realised how much I missed Drumfred tbh… oh well.  
> This chapter, I loved showing how much Drums is enjoying his new position! Alfred is a bit unhappy about being a de facto servant but whatever, it's funny.  
> I rewatched a bit of Victoria at the weekend and picked up "Septimus is my favourite brother" -- Idk where Daisy got Septimus from, he's not a real person for sure, but I'll go with it. So now you know why Alfred and Septimus are so close :)) I thought it was important for Alfred to have someone he can be honest with, outside of Drums (and really, how honest is Alfred allowed to be with him?)
> 
> The hymn I used in the chapel service part is a real one in the Eton Hymn book! I was thinking of making a bit of a thing out of hymns in this story, picking a verse per chapter that summarises the feelings going around :)
> 
> Next chapter I think I will introduce some competition for Alfred's benefit... Florence and Wilhelmina are definitely going to make appearances.


	3. The London Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred is forced to recognise the tension between he and Drummond as their personal relationship is complicated by two curious letters in the morning post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting on Monday! It's only a few days late, I guess... I've been writing this as I go, nothing pre-written, and I do enjoy the freedom that allows, but at the same time I just didn't feel like I had anything valuable in my brain to add to this story until today. I'll try to get back on track from now on!

Thursday morning brought not only slightly colder air to Eton’s renaissance red-brick rooms, but also mail to all the students. Drummond was dreading the letters from home he would receive; September was the end of the season and his father had promised to promote a favourable match while he was in London and notify him.

So, Drummond pulled himself out of bed but couldn’t bring himself to leave his room. The private dorms at Eton were small but comfortable, so he had no problem sitting at his desk for a few minutes to avoid the day.

He then heard a knock on the door. ‘Half seven, Drummond!’ Alfred yelled from the other side.

Alfred stood outside, already dressed, knocking on the door again. But Drummond didn’t seem to be answering; in fact he heard nothing from the other side. Alfred felt concern bubbling up and so unlocked the door with a key Edward had given him when they first became friends.

‘Drummond, it’s time to get up-’ But he saw the man sitting at his desk, still wearing his pyjamas. He rocked on his chair and stared into space with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. ‘My God, Edward, what’s the matter, do I need to send for someone?’ Alfred asked, closing the door and rushing to his side to hold his cheeks and assess the extent of his disengagement.

‘Don’t make me go down, please Alfred…’

‘It’s breakfast, and you need to eat if you’re to do me proud at cricket training today.’ Alfred pulled his friend out of his chair and looked over him—Edward’s hair was a mess, he hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt yet, and his cotton pyjama trousers hung at a lazy point on his hips. Despite the severity of the situation, he couldn’t help but smile as he put his arms around Edward’s bare chest and pulled him over to the wardrobe.

Another part of his duties was to dress his superior.

Edward was clean enough to not warrant a bath, so all that was left was to remove his trousers and replace them with the image of a happy young man ready to face the day. Alfred’s breath hitched as he realised how unprepared he was for this. He had seen Drummond naked when they’d been skinny dipping, but never in a setting as intimate as a bedroom.

‘Edward, do you want to... uhm… maybe we’ll start with the shirt?’

Drummond nodded and allowed Alfred to slip his arms through it. Alfred moved in front of Edward, standing only a few inches from his face, to master the detail of the shirt buttons. He felt his cheeks burning and struggled to control his breath, which Edward could probably feel on his neck. Alfred couldn’t help but run his fingers over Drummond’s waist and arms, fitting the shirt in place.

Alfred cupped Drummond’s chin to extend his neck and get the last button in place. In the silence of the room, Alfred considered making light conversation, but as he fixed the collar and bowtie around Drummond’s neck, he found his mind occupied with the warmth of his superior’s skin. Once he’d finished adjusting the waistcoat, the built-up energy and frustration from being so close to Edward left Alfred and that loss stung. He had liked the way his arms fitted around the other, all the feeling of anticipation pushing him to lean further in…

But Alfred was a boy of strong constitution, and he knew better than to risk everything he held dear in his life with one silly miscalculation. So, he shook off his desires and resigned himself to the fact that nothing could ever happen. He soon took the plunge and lowered Drummond’s trousers, replacing them with the uniform’s pinstripes quickly enough to ensure his interest wasn’t piqued.

Edward maintained a stony face throughout the process, and by the end, Alfred had him looking sharp. He slotted Drummond’s shoulders into his coat, and again finding himself an inch apart from his face as he brushed the fabric down, an arm around Edward’s waist to reach the back. It was almost as if they were in waltz position.

The two soon found themselves in the breakfast hall, Alfred chatting to George who made several quips to take even Edward’s mind off the arrival of morning mail. Drummond occupied himself by poking his food around, not much interested in the cold scrambled eggs and disappointing dense bread.

‘How lucky you are Drummond, Alfred seems to have you looking well for once.’

Edward was unresponsive, so Alfred sought to fill the space. ‘Drummond was most obliging, allowing me to poke and prod until he looked satisfactory.’

‘I bet that’s not all…’

Alfred glared at George, and the latter simply laughed his head off and winked. Henry and John arrived with their plates of food to sit at the Colleger table, bringing a handful of letters with them.

‘One for you, Alfred,’ Henry said, handing him a coarse envelope sealed with a red wax stamp. The fountain-pen swirls depicting his name on the front made Alfred smile; a letter from a friend.

‘One for me,’ John said, sorting his handful into piles, ‘two for Drummond, and George.’

Alfred took the two letters as well as his own, as Edward seemed to have retreated into himself. He poked Edward in the thigh, mouthing to him, _Are you alright?_

_ No. _

Alfred squeezed his friend’s hand underneath the table. Only after reassuring his friend did he open his letter, smiling brightly as he saw it was from a friend of his family’s.

‘It’s from Harriet Sutherland! Her husband was a Harrow cricketer, so they’re both coming to watch the Eton versus Harrow cricket match in a few weeks' time. Harriet says I had better score some runs or she’ll lose a rather costly bet...'

He then opened Drummond's letters for him, forcing him to accept the pages, as he continued reading Harriet’s curly writing. Despite the considerable age-gap between the Earl and Countess Gower, Alfred was overjoyed for Harriet's blissful life. She only spoke fond words of her husband.

‘My father,’ Edward stated, casting his eyes from the letters.

‘Two? At once?’ Henry asked, becoming less cheerful and more concerned. ‘But why?’

‘They’re not both from him, there’s a second one in here from… a Wilhelmina Coke?’

Henry spat out some tea that he’d just poured. ‘I saw her just last month! Her father’s the Derby MP, and quite… tarnished. I heard he took a French Princess to bed on the eve of her wedding, can you imagine?’

‘How dramatic you are, Henry,’ John said, ogling the tea dripping from the Howard Lord’s chin. ‘Overreacting must be a posh person thing.’

‘On the contrary, Drummond seems perfectly composed, and receiving a letter from one’s father is never a good thing,’ George added. Alfred raised his eyes at George; was “composed” the right word for someone frozen in stone by shock?

‘Indeed… What does it say, Drummond?’ Alfred asked. If he wouldn’t receive an answer now, he would be sure to force it out of his friend later; he hated to see Edward distressed to such a lifeless extent.

‘The London Season has just ended, and my father is confident that I have a match,’ he started, the letter quivering as he read again over the commanding words his father had penned.

“You shall come to London…”

“You will sign a pre-nuptial agreement…”

“You are required to…”

“You must…”

“It is imperative to your career that…”

Edward felt his stomach churn and panic build up, and he pushed away his food, signalling to Alfred that he may as well start on the dishes now.

‘Father is asking me to come to London to meet Lady Florence Villiers, and my future-father-in-law, the Marquess of Lothian.’

Alfred choked, and a wave of protective feelings washed over him. The warmth between them that morning, when Alfred had stood so close to dress him, as only an intimate would be allowed, morphed into anger at the stranger, Lady Florence. He had to fight to keep his head, and Edward flinched as Alfred’s method of doing so was to grip the fabric of his coat much too tightly.

‘And what about the other letter?’ Henry asked, looking upon Drummond with pity in his eyes for his own father had guaranteed that as a junior son, he could marry whomever he wished.

‘Miss Coke has invited me to attend a dinner party at which Lady Florence is expected present. She mentions they’re old family friends, and she will be ever so thrilled to meet me.’

John, tapping into his anxious way of thinking, piped up, ‘But I wonder if attending at this stage is wise, after all, you’ve not met this lady before and nothing is settled. Will it not be, well, painfully awkward?’

‘Wilhelmina says I may bring a guest of my own, should I wish. I expect she had the same thought as you, John.’

Everyone stared at Alfred.

‘Alright, fine, I would be delighted to attend this party of Miss Coke’s as your guest, Drummond.’ Alfred cleared away his superior’s dishes and shuffled off to the kitchens before any of them could see him cry.

~*~

Thursday, being a school-wide day-off, was spent playing cricket on the large pitches. Some years ago, an annual cricket tournament had been established between Eton and Harrow, and the boys were highly motivated to win it yet again. There remained some weeks before the match would take place, but Alfred kept Harriet's bet against her husband for an Eton victory in mind as he agreed to play a few practice matches. Collegers were first to bat, while Oppidan students fielded. They’d split themselves across several pitches to play concurrent games in a tournament fashion, so one overlooking from the college buildings would see a vast green field with dots of white. All the boys knew well to don their whites for the occasion; Eton did have a uniform for everything.

With autumn arriving however, the wind had picked up, and despite Alfred seeking refuge in his team’s marquee at the edge of the field while he waited for his turn, it made him shiver. Henry and John were the current batsmen, setting the bar rather too high for Alfred’s liking as they had scored 20 runs in only one over. Alfred could be waiting in the cold for some time.

Edward snuck up behind his cold friend, who had resorted to wrapping his arms around his light cotton chemise for warmth. Edward removed his own white cricket jumper and trapped Alfred in it, forcing him to slot his arms through the holes.

‘Drummond, you silly thing, you’ll freeze without it!’

Alfred continued protesting but that only earned him a smile from Drummond. ‘Better me than you.’

Alfred hoped to God that the cold stopped his face from turning the shade of a tomato. Especially as Drummond took advantage of the marquee shielding them from view, enveloping Alfred in a hug to warm him. Alfred couldn’t keep the smile from his face as he wrapped his arms around the other, patting him on the back. It reminded him of spooning, though any contact with Drummond was meaningful and happy rather than simply a rush of energy from physical contact.

After some time, the two unlatched from each other, Drummond keeping hold of Alfred’s shoulders. Alfred directed conscious effort to remove his hand from its position pressed against Drummond’s chest.

‘I, uhm… I just wanted to thank you for this morning… Coming to me and rescuing me from myself.’

‘I know you would do the same for me, Edward. And I certainly intend to guard you through this dinner engagement with Miss Coke, if you do indeed want me-’

‘I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else to accompany me.’

Alfred felt his eyes well up slightly as he relished in the trust and understanding between them, that is until a voice broke him from the moment.

‘You’d better stop romancing each other and join the team, John and Henry were just out-bowled,’ George joked, standing at the edge of the marquee with a suspicious look in his eyes. ‘The team wants to put Alfred and Andrew in next. Drummond, you’ll be after that.’

Alfred and Edward quickly separated, running back onto the field. Andrew seemed ecstatic at batting alongside Alfred.

‘We missed you at breakfast, but I not sure any mail came for you,' Alfred mentioned.

‘Ah yes, I had the fortune of spending last night with my father at court; the King had the very queer thought of Windsor on a Wednesday. Can you believe it?’

‘That you should now boast it, I have no issue believing.’

‘Hardly boasting, Alfred, not when you hear my recount of the court presentations from this year’s season. In fact, I had no idea that the talk of London, Charles Drummond, was in fact our Edward’s father. Come to think of it, I did notice he was quite engaged with the Marquess of Lothian, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

Alfred wouldn’t label himself as an adept cricketer by any means, but he did expect to go further than half an over. Alas, his mind was elsewhere as the Oppidan bowler paced by the wickets, prepared his run up, catapulted the ball over his head, spun it to avoid Alfred’s bat, and struck the wickets clean off the stumps.

Amid the cheers from the Oppidans, Alfred abandoned his bat and sought the peace that only the forest lining the Jubilee River could provide. He always did like the sound of rushing water through the heart of an untarnished, natural place, to drown his own thoughts. Now was the time to have a clear head, especially as he had moments earlier agreed to help his very own crush make an impression on his future wife. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. Writing Alfred's new dynamic with Drummond is still giving me major heartache, so many of Alfred's responsibilities will involve getting up-close and personal with Drums from now on!  
> George's little quip about romance is such a Freudian slip but oh well, I just had to.  
> Another thing: because this is an Eton fic, there aren’t many chances to write female characters! I read that Harriet's husband (by 1832, he is Earl Gower, not yet Duke of Sutherland) was an avid cricketer at Harrow, which is a rival public school to Eton. There's an annual cricket competition between the two schools that still goes on today, so I thought maybe Harriet (as she is a family friend of Alfred's) could make an appearance. I had the great idea of involving Florence and Wilhelmina via the London Season marriage arrangement, so hopefully we can have some more gender diversity now.
> 
> What do you think about Andrew? He's very... curious about everything...


End file.
